


I could catch that feel good

by AnotherLoser



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (to an extent- it was more inspo than a direct link), Future Fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Stiles Stilinski is Mitch Rapp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherLoser/pseuds/AnotherLoser
Summary: The day started wrong the moment he woke. Routine was the same - coffee, water, a quick breakfast, a jog to the gym for the next few hours - but as he lay in bed those first few moments his gut was already unsettled. Not the jump instinct of immediate danger, not the paranoia he’s grown so familiar with, only a vague notion of dread for what was to come.-Or, Stiles is approaching thirty, living life off the grid despite working for the government, when he's dragged back into Beacon Hills.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	1. fire's been burnin'

The day started wrong the moment he woke. Routine was the same - coffee, water, a quick breakfast, a jog to the gym for the next few hours - but as he lay in bed those first few moments his gut was already unsettled. Not the jump instinct of immediate danger, not the paranoia he’s grown so familiar with, only a vague notion of dread for what was to come.

Something was wrong, only Stiles hadn’t a clue what it would be until it came. He continues on in wait, hits the targets just a little harder, pushes himself perhaps a little too much, trains longer than was really necessary; whether that was because he could distract himself with hard work or because the environment was familiar, felt safer when he was uncertain, or maybe even both.

It hardly mattered in the end. Coping mechanisms aside, there wasn’t anything to do but wait. Even when the answer appears clear - when a man who clearly doesn’t belong there is sitting on the steps to his building, getting up only when approached - he knows it wasn’t right. Even when the man waiting for him was his own father, however unexpected. And even when the look on Noah Stilinski’s face is nothing but warm relief— he can feel it in his bones that the other shoe has yet to drop.

Still his lips stretch into a gentle smile. It’s certainly been long enough that seeing the man was refreshing no matter the context that sent him here.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, arms raising to meet his father in an embrace.

“What? A man can’t visit his kid because he misses him?”

When they separate there’s a pause, one hand lingering on the older’s shoulder and one of Noah’s on his son’s waist. There’s more lines on the sheriff’s face now. Or maybe they were just deeper. His hair was light, though not entirely silver yet. His smile reaches his eyes as they look over his son with the same kind of analysis.

“You have my number, don’t you?” Stiles responds lightly.   
“Oh come on, Stiles, it’s been three years of nothing but phone calls- I needed to see you.”

Shaking his head with an air of fondness, the younger man turns towards the doors and leads the way in.

There wasn’t much to speak of in regards to his current situation. The apartment was big, all things considered, but still only fit for himself. An open kitchen next to the living room, two barely-filled bookshelves either side of the tv, a loveseat sofa with an end table next to it. One bedroom, one bathroom, one closet, two windows. No decorations but the wall clock and standing lamp that came with the place. The view is nothing special either, but at least it had a good vantage point- should he ever feel as if he was being followed on the way in.

He always sought out locations like this after a mission; anywhere from weeks to months at a time, and once nearly an entire year spent across the country, across oceans, with nothing but work day in and day out. When he returns there was never much point in going back to the same place, so Stiles finds buildings with short leases and good windows, usually in running distance of some place he can go to keep himself in the shape he needed to be for the next job, whenever it appeared.

The situation also didn’t leave a lot of room for settling in. Planning visits, making new connections- they weren’t stable. So he calls his father whenever he was  _ ‘home’ _ . He checks up on the pack mostly through the internet and word of mouth, though Stiles no longer has any accounts of his own. He could watch them, even tracked down Scott’s records in veterinary school after a particularly rough few months away, but the favor wasn’t returned. It couldn’t be when Mieczyslaw Stilinski stopped appearing on paper the day he was taken from the FBI academy.

As he locks the door, Stiles looks his father’s way, noting the curious expression on his face. “A nice place, huh?” He asks with a stilted voice in his discomfort.

Stiles nods as he makes his way farther in, setting his gym bag next to the sofa and moving towards the fridge for a water bottle. “It’s alright. Walls aren’t too thin at least.” Not that that stopped noise complaints from time to time when Stiles was a little too rowdy himself. None of this really mattered though; checking in isn’t why Noah was here. People don’t track down other people and surprise attack them in their own homes for no reason. Even Noah Stilinski didn’t go that far without something important stoking the flames. They were just making nice before the shoe dropped now, except, Stiles was never a fan of games like that. “Why are you really here, dad?”

Immediately, the man deflates. He shuffles his feet like he was nervous, looks around like he was going to get defensive, but when their eyes meet again he gives in to Stiles’ determination.

“Something’s happening back home.”

“Something is always happening there, it’s Beacon Hills.” Noah shakes his head.

“It’s not like that this time.”

“Then what is it like? Because I’m not running around in the pack anymore, dad. It’s not my job to protect that place from all the monsters.”

“You think I don’t know that?” He scoffs. “After all this time, you think I don’t get it? And I’m  _ glad _ , Stiles. You shouldn’t have felt responsible for it in the first place, I’m thrilled you got out!”

“So why now?”

“Because it’s different! I wouldn’t be here if there was another option, but I’ve run out of ideas.”


	2. I can drop my values

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: fictional government programs up ahead after very vague FBI academy stuff bc I clearly do not know what it's like in there, I just googled the requirements for a more accurate timeline.

_-19-_

The junior academy wasn’t a straight shot. It didn’t guarantee a job as an FBI agent, it was simply meant to educate and encourage fresh high school graduates to pursue something in government. They were supposed to love it, stick with it, and if they were good enough they could do just that. Stiles had a good chance because he weaseled his way onto a task force before he graduated the academy, because even though he was still an energetic kid with ADHD he was also smart, dedicated, determined, and at the top of his class both academically and physically. He didn’t do things halfway, and his friends needed his help. So he helped, and he came back, and his instructors have been eyeing him differently ever since. In the classroom, in the gym, even in the mess hall while he jabs at his lunch with a plastic fork.

“How do you get on a team and piss off the instructors instead of impressing them?” Matthew talked too much. Stiles talked when he was nervous or excited mostly, but the young man across from him talked just to hear himself. He was nice enough, but he had no filter, vaguely sexist views, and for some reason thought Stiles was the closest thing to a friend he wanted in this place. They did not agree on that notion but he wasn’t going to start bickering with his peers in a place he was supposed to be professional.

“I dunno, maybe I did both.” It wasn’t the teacher that was with him when he lost a toe and snuck off with Derek. It’s impressive he got there, suspicious he vanished, even stranger when he returned. He doesn’t think many people here like him anymore, if they ever did.

Regardless of the popularity vote though, it’s a surprise when he’s called into the office at the end of the day; this had been normal in high school for a number of reasons but Stiles has been working diligently to make a better impression here.

“You wanted to see me, ma’am?” He asks with just his head stuck through the doorway, until waved in further.

“Stilinki- have a seat.” And of course he does so, hands pressed together between his knees. “Alright, I’ll get straight to it. I wanted to talk to you about you plans moving forward.”

“Moving forward?”

“You’ll be finished in the junior program soon, but the FBI requires new recruits to be twenty-three and obtain at least a bachelor’s degree. Are you committed to putting in that college time, waiting until you’re old enough?” Stiles blinks.

“Do you want me to be?” She seems surprised at that, if only slightly. Maybe a side effect of the job, maybe she knew that was coming and just didn’t quite expect him to ask. It’s only a slight raise in her brow that lets him see anything. She reminds him of Allison. Authoritative but kind, elegant in appearance. Plus they had a similar bone structure. “I just mean, y’know after what happened--”

“After you disappeared during an attack and then reappeared at the academy two weeks later? You clearly have some gaul, I’ll give you that, but the fact you got that far and impressed someone enough to keep your spot held in the meantime, well that says something.” Obviously, he supposed. In retrospect it made sense given the way things unfolded. Still it just didn’t sound right; Stiles’ luck streak was so famously bad it was harder to think of when things went right than it was to remember when they went wrong.

_-21-_

College doesn’t feel how he thought it would. Academics were his strong suit. Ignoring emotion for facts, directing his hyper-focus with some liberal use of his medications. Balancing course work wasn’t hard after balancing high school, self defense, and tracking murderers all at once. Maybe that was the biggest difference between him and his peers- Stiles was far from the only high achiever in proximity, but he knew things they didn’t. He felt things, did things that no one outside of Beacon Hills was likely to understand.

He screams himself awake on occasion still. He works out his frustration running until his legs didn’t work. He jumps at all of the wrong things and is stoic at the others. He never truly had to consider it before, but now that he did he couldn’t seem to stop noticing.

His roommate kind of hates him for his late night behaviors, asleep or not. He only talks to his peers on a surface level. Mostly he just works, and when he doesn’t he does whatever it takes to stop looking over his shoulder.

He didn’t want party drugs at first- didn’t even like parties. He went because his roommate wanted him to unwind, and he wanted that too and maybe just one night of drinking himself stupid wouldn’t hurt. Of course there were party favors, he expected it really, and he didn’t take anything. Stiles didn’t take anything but his Adderall, which is exactly what he told the guy. He didn’t know that a few weeks later he would bump into the same person who had apparently gotten connections to a few prescriptions.

Sleeping pills were Stiles’ vice. It saved him a lot of trouble, he didn’t take them every night - only the bad ones - and he didn’t entirely enjoy it either. It was merely circumstance that led him here, and the pills were cheaper than therapy even if he could be honest in his sessions, which in his mind also equaled out to the hassle it would be to talk to friends from back home. He wasn’t cut off from contact, of course. They all were busy, moved on, studying or working or both in different parts of the world. Why would he bother them with shitty old memories? Digging up feelings they might not even know he had? It wasn’t worth the anxiety of confessing his fears to people he wanted to think good of him. So drugs it is; Adderall for focus, ambien for sleep, weed for relaxation, and whatever he was handed when he went out so he could actually enjoy himself in the crowd. It might not be good for his mind but as long as he was sharp enough for good grades in his classes and rested enough to keep training before knocking on the FBI’s door again, it all would work out.

_-23-_

He waited until the last month of college to get clean, but he’s stayed that way since. It’s more than enough time to get himself together, seeing as he had to wait for his birthday to officially come before applying to the academy, even after getting all the school he needed. Alcohol is only sometimes, drugs are only what’s prescribed, diet and training were even more intense to make sure he was in the best shape he could be in before he even applied.

It set him up perfectly; before he knew it he was being welcomed into a new office, with new programs, and new standards. He liked it better here than any of the previous groups. High school was a disaster he didn’t need to explain(didn’t want to ever again). The junior academy was a fine start but he knew it was only the tip of the iceberg and he had similar problems socially there to what came before. College was confusion and self doubt and addiction when he wasn’t able to keep up the delusional high he tried so hard to maintain. This was the big leagues as far as Stiles was concerned, what all of that had been building up to. Even the time spent studying felt refreshing, though that was likely a placebo effect within his own mind.

He was being tested physically, but he had been preparing for so long in advance he didn’t find much frustration there. His body could be challenged in some ways, but anything was easier mentally than what he's already seen. Somehow it had twisted into reassurance and an advantage; knowing there were no demons to fight, only humans with human weapons not unlike the hunters he's also survived by proximity and affiliation. And everyone else here could have insane pasts as well, their own hardships motivating them and pushing them harder, but no one knew what he knew. Even if that didn't actually make him better in the academy, it was enough to make him confident when he went into the sparring matches.

None of that however was going to keep him out of trouble. Stiles didn't know how to do politics or how to be a teacher's pet, and ADHD didn't stop once you reached adulthood. So it's no surprised eventually he'd be pulled aside for some reason or another. Maybe it was a test, maybe it was about the disrespectful ways he blabbers on unintentionally, or occasionally goes too hard when up against his peers. Hand to hand combat wasn't nearly as much of a focus to the program as firearms, stealth, or surveillance, but Stiles acted like it was, someone was bound to complain. Maybe several someones before they called him out.

Either way, the feeling was understandably similar to what happened in the junior program, only this time the weight of what was on the line felt much, much heavier. Of course he's stuck waiting as well, leg bouncing as the anticipation of what he was in for grew and grew with every minute.

"M. Stilinski..." He hears behind him immediately as the door to the office opened. Stiles jerks his head around to see who it was, not that he recognized her in the slightest. She didn't have a very stern demeanor, at least not at first. He'd guess that she was around his height in her current heels, dressed in a black suit, her tone of voice rather gentle considering where she worked. "How do you pronounce your first name?" She asks as she takes her seat on the other side of the desk in front of him.

"Mieczysław."

"I see. Polish, right?" Stiles blinks.

"Uhm- yeah. Yes." She gives him a small smile, nods her head, and then pulls a folder out of her desk. As she flips it open her eyes move in quick glances rather than lingering ones as if she were actually reading the pages. More like she was refreshing her memory of where to start, Stiles thinks.

"On your mother's side?"

"Yes..." His brow furrows slightly.

"Stilinski is Slavic too though, isn't it?"

"Pretty sure, but uh dad never talked about his side of the family much."

"Understandable. His father doesn't sound like a very pleasant man."

Stiles' skills involved playing dumb. Talking. Confusing. Mind games. He was better at these things with planning though, and this woman has caught him so off guard it takes him back. "Sorry- you know my grandfather?"

"Not personally, no. But judging by your father's medical records..."

"Why do you have those?" Maybe he should have hesitated. If he knew there would be something confrontational like this he probably would have. He'd be somewhat prepared at the very least, keeping up the tone and attitude he started with. He could do that. Even if it was just about Stiles himself, but this was his family she was bringing up. Even if it was just to get a point across, she was mentioning it for a reason. "You have mine too?"

"I do. Including some interesting notes about a place called-"

"Eichen House. It was mental institution."

"But it doesn't exist anymore."

"Unfortunately."

"Why were you there?"

"You don't have those files too?"

"I have some. Cant recover what was destroyed, like most of the notes made after admission, but you were there recently enough before it was lost that your admission was in the front offices. Not far from the visitor logs. You went back a couple of times apparently."

"Friends in the joint."

"You weren't there very long, were you? You returned to school pretty quickly."

"Oh, school records too? Nice. News reports go hand in hand with that, I'm guessing?"

"They do. You come from a very unfortunate town, don't you, Stiles?"

"I do, I do... You can see why I wanted to leave."

"A lot of people dead. A lot of your classmates. Your school building was attacked repeatedly, there were bomb threats on the buses, the hospital was attacked by _sword wielding_ mad-men..."

It was no wonder her folder was so thick. His dad's medical, his mom's too most likely. School, medical, mental, the rest of the town-

"With all do respect, ma'am, why does any of this matter to you?"

"You have a remarkable amount of absences in school lining up with the tragedies in your town. Not to mention the hospital visit testing for your mother's condition, followed by a trip to the local mental hospital... Now, I don't know what you've seen, Stiles, or what you might have done during all of this, but between all of that and your performance in the academy so far I've gotten a feeling about you. I have a test I want you to take, and I think you'll do very well at it."

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up. "That's it? A test? The interrogation is to tell me about a new test?"

"It's not for everyone. In fact I have to ask you not to tell anyone about this, including your teachers."

"...Who exactly are you?"

"I'll tell you that as soon as you pass."

_-24-_

He passed with flying colors. They didn't say so in those exact words, but Stiles knew. They kept giving him new tests every day for a week, and then the next they'd start him back over. They did this for a month, and then he was offered something new.

Forget the FBI. Forget working his way up the food chain after graduation, proving himself as an agent piece by piece wherever they put him. In any department the newbies had to do the shit work before they could move up, so with his luck Stiles would probably be cleaning out actual dog cages or filing papers for at least a year.

That was all a part of the deal in his mind, however true or not it was, he had to be prepared for something lackluster so it didn't disappoint him when it hit. But that would never happen now; he didn't even finish to graduation. He was pulled from his class, his records were scrubbed, and he was shipped off with a blindfold on to the middle of the woods to train.

First he'd train here in a private bootcamp, and if he survived he'd be stationed as soon as possible. The bottom line was that his psychological profile matched what they needed for a trained killer. Considering this, going to a camp with who knows how many other people who passed the same test quite frankly scared him a little bit. Sometimes humans were more vicious than any monster was designed to be. Because of that, he was on his toes the second he was let out of the van that was dropping him off.

Only after he arrived did he find out that everyone else here had formal training already. Police, army, navy, marines, the tough guys that already knew how to take orders and get the job done right. Stiles seemed to be the only one who didn't have bulging muscles and offensive energy. Just like back home, he tries to use this to his advantage; on runs he stays around third place, during PT he huffs and puffs more than he needs to, and when they spar he never lets himself get wound up. He didn't want to be kicked out but if there was a competition, Stiles needed to act as out of place as he looked until it really counts.

_-25-_

Things went wrong quickly. He isn't completely convinced that he finished bootcamp properly either, but things happen, and he isn't the only one. Most of them got marked as complete and sent to black ops instead of what they were really training for. Stiles doesn't know if they care; he doesn't ask that many questions. It was him and two others from his round of bootcamp that kept the same gig, three out of eight men total. Small operations have small yield, he figures.

When things actually went wrong though it wasn't about the training or what happened to his fellow cadets. It was the first mission coming up out of no where, changing their plans due to the growing bomb threat. It was Stiles ending up on this mission primarily alone because one of the two other surviving men got killed so quickly in that they were still gathering information when it happened. His supervisor was an asshole with a hard on for testing Stiles every step of the way, pushing, prodding, and only conceding to the fact he wasn't an awful recruit after the job was done and they were both bandaged up. _Right shoulder, left side, left thigh - two cuts and a bullet._

With a job this unpredictable though, he never expected it to get easier.

_-26-_

Mission three was fine aside from the fact the informant he was sent to work with was a double agent trying to work him. She was supposed to have information and skills that would help find and corner a man trying to take out senators with poison. She blew her cover with one wrong comment and after passing her along to the men and women the next level up, Stiles had to go on alone. Not before she nearly clawed his eyes out, or before he nearly broke her esophagus. _Bruises, scratches, no scars._

Mission four goes so smoothly he's paranoid for over a month afterwards. The threat was a small terrorist unit planning attack. He partnered with the other surviving bootcamp graduate. They were living together in hotels and vans for three months. They have to share intimate space, bathrooms, beds, and near the end of the job Stiles has to pull a bullet out of Darren's ass cheek and patch him up. Other than that and Stiles' fractured rib, they make it through without a scratch. They start off with nothing but surface level conversation and commentary but eventually end up on training, what brought them into this position, what they lost that made them so willing to take one life in protection of another.

Stiles only shares so much. Darren probably knows it, he's a smart guy, but nobody pushes for more.

_-27-_

He was right to be paranoid before, because what they did in job four is why job five is a suicide mission. Stiles is kidnapped on the outskirts of France, held for four days on a boat before he can escape. They put his feet in a tray of water, hook wires up to it. As they question him they shock the pan when he insults them. After a few rounds, they begin beating him. _Burnt feet, two broken ribs, swollen eye, burst blood vessel._ He begins laughing.

They take pliers and pull out three of his fingernails. Stiles laughs.

They get bigger pliers, and he starts cackling.

He remembers everything up to now that made him prepared for this. He remembers the days before training. He remembers Gerard Argent tying him up in a basement once as well. He remembers the basement of Eichen House. He remembers the Nogitsune, duct tape, knives, swords, that haunting laugh and the warm breath on the back of his neck and he _cackles_.

They take one of his back teeth, and as the blood dribbles down his chin he starts moving his hips and moaning, shouting, begging for more.

By the time he escapes he's running on pure adrenaline, his captors had been often muttering between themselves while they stared at him and his hysterics. The most effective method of bringing terror, in Stiles' opinion, was expressing one's own madness. They couldn't break a man who behaved as if he was already broken. They couldn't scare a kid who's already seen hell in his dreams a hundred times over.

He escapes because they were getting unsure about him, left him alone with a lacky. Mind games were his specialty at this point.

Missions six and seven are nearly back-to-back. Stiles changes locations to rest every time he comes back to the States, slowly making his way around the country in extended stay hotels and month-to-month rent apartments. He's paid well for what he does, doesn't have to worry about getting in legal trouble when not even the entire government knows of the kind of work he does, so he can go wherever he wants. The hard part is trying to settle down in between jobs and for this very reason; there was never any telling how long he'd have before he'd be called up again and shoved onto a plane the very same day.

After six, he nearly broke his ankle jumping from roof to roof in the chase, but otherwise he was fairly unscathed. After seven he spent a week in the hospital due to internal bleeding and a concussion, having been run over by the speeding van of a witness he was trying to take out after the actual job was finished. They crashed and killed themselves anyway, but that wasn't the point.


End file.
